Woody Allen once said that sex was the most fun he'd ever had without laughing. But laughing and sex are not mutually exclusive. Horniness brings on undignified behaviour, and it is all the more fun if we are in on the joke. This blog is a celebration of the funny side of sex and the sexy side of humour. As an author of erotic stories I like to show that sex is more fun when it is playful and silly.
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Friday, August 19, 2011
Serge Protector (aka Mr. Electric) : Fuck Me Friday
Between Throbbing Thursday and Satiated Saturday comes Fuck Me Friday. How could it be otherwise? And, as you know, silly smut is the order of the day here at Aussiescribbler's. (Isn't it always?) To find out more about this raunchy writing challenge check out Aisling Weaver's site. She has declared that today's prompt should be #electric.
Serge Protector (aka Mr. Electric)
It was a perfectly normal day in Dullsville, Kansas. The sun was shining. The birds were chirping. And Patsy Protector was hanging the laundry on the clothes-line. Her new born son Serge was giggling and dribbling in his bassinet on the lawn behind her. The date was October 16, 1952.
Suddenly a bolt of lightning shot out of the clear blue, cloudless sky and struck the bassinet. It was followed by an ear-splitting boom of thunder.
Patsy spun around and looked with horror into the bassinet. Serge was alive, but his eyes were glowing eerily, smoke was pouring out of his ears and his minimal hair was standing on end.
Later scientists would calculate that little Serge had absorbed enough electricity to kill a rhino. But it didn't kill him. It made him stronger.
If this were not a true story, I would have to provide some kind of believable explanation as to how this could have happened - how a lightning bolt could come out of a clear blue sky and how it could hit a tiny baby and not kill it. But this is a true story. So I don't have to bother. I know that you will accept it simply as one of those unsolved mysteries of the world, like why drive-through automatic teller machines have braille on the buttons.
Serge's true powers lay dormant through his childhood and adolescence, but, at the age of twenty he found that he could shoot electricity out of his cock. He became Mr. Electric, pal to the powerless and friend to those who forgot to pay the bill.
He's been a superhero now for nearly forty years, travelling from city to city. It doesn't pay to stay anywhere long. Once his secret is revealed the demands and prejudice can become crippling.
Today we join him as he strolls through New York City.
"Damn! The battery's flat!" a young woman curses, looking at her mobile phone.
"Allow me madame," Serge says, taking it from her hands. He then shoves it down his trousers and rubs it against his cock.
"What the fuck!" she cries, as he pulls it back out and hands it to her.
"I think you'll find it works fine now," he tells her with a smile.
She looks at her phone gingerly, holding it with two fingers. She holds it up to her nose and sniffs. Then she looks at Serge's retreating back, shakes her head, sighs, and dials her number.
"Hey, you're Mr. Electric, aren't you?" asks a heavily tattooed man wearing a dirty singlet and a balaclava.
"Why yes I am," Serge replies with a warm smile. "Did you want an autograph?"
"No, thanks," the guy replies. "I'm just wondering if you could help me jump start my car. The battery seems to be flat."
"Forgot your keys?" Serge queries, noticing that the man has pulled two wires out from the dashboard. "So easy to do. Sure I can help you." He looks at the fish symbol on the back window of the car. "You being a Christian, I'm sure you'll consider me a good Samaritan, hey?"
"A Christian?" the guy queries. "Oh, yeah. Sure. Yes." He looks up and down the street nervously.
Serge lifts the bonnet, unzips his pants, pulls out his cock and applies it to the engine which starts up right away.
"Thanks, mister!" the guy yells, leaping in and driving off.
Around the next corner, a crowd of people have gathered, looking up at something taking place on a high window ledge.
"I swear I'm going to jump!" declares a thin, blonde man teetering on the edge.
Serge enters the building and runs up the stairs two at a time.
"He failed another audition. It always makes him so depressed," explains a frantic woman, digging her fingers into her frizzy dark hair.
"'How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable / Seem to me all the uses of this world! / Fie on't! O fie! 'tis an unweeded garden, / That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature / Possess it merely. That it should come to this...'" proclaims the thwarted thespian, seeming to address the gawping crowd.
"What a ham!" declares the attending policeman. "I wouldn't hire him to play billiards."
"You're no help," complains the woman, looking hopefully to Serge.
"I'll handle this," Serge tells her, pulling two lengths of wire out of his pocket. "Do you have a clean handkerchief?"
"No," she replies.
"Then take off your panties," he tells her. "They'll do."
"What are you going to do?" she asks, lifting her skirt and pulling down her panties.
"You'll see," he replies mysteriously, as he takes her panties and climbs out onto the ledge.
"I'm not afraid to jump," threatens the actor.
"I know you aren't," Serge reassures him. "Now put these panties in your mouth."
The actor is so bewildered that he does as he is told. Serge pulls out his cock, attaches the two lengths of wire to it and then applies the other end of each to one of the actor's temples. There is a sizzling sound and the actor begins to jerk around and foam at the mouth.
A moment later Serge leads the man back in through the window. He is wall-eyed and drooling.
"Electro-convulsive therapy," Serge explains. "Shock treatment. By tomorrow he'll be his old self. He won't even remember why he was depressed."
"I'm so glad," sighs the woman.
"He may also not remember his PINs, his computer passwords and some of his relatives," Serge admits.
As he exists the building and makes his way through the disappointed and now dispersing crowd, Serge's mobile rings.
"A freak black-out and the failure of all back-up generators has closed down Wall Street," a grim voice informs him. "Unless we can get the power back, the market could plummet. We need you!"
"I'll be right there!" Serge promises.
On the way he passes an unprepossessing street level apartment.
"Oh, fuck! Just as I was about to cum, my vibrator's batteries go flat!" cries a sexy female voice.
Serge looks towards Wall Street. He looks towards the apartment. He looks back towards Wall Street. He looks back towards the bedroom window of the apartment. He takes a deep sigh. He feels appropriately ashamed of himself. He turns his back on Wall Street. He leaps through the window of the apartment.
"Who the fuck are you!?!" cries a curvy redheaded housewife, quickly pulling up the bedcovers to hide her horny nude sweat-soaked body. "Home invasion! Home invasion! I've got a gun!"
"I'm Mr. Electric," says Serge. "Please do not distress yourself. I'm only here to recharge your vibrator's batteries."
"Mr. Electric!" she enthuses, her eyes lighting up like Christmas trees. "That's different." She throws off the covers and writhes shamelessly with her legs spread wide so that he can see wet her pussy is.
"Why, madame," Serge blushes, as a silly grin spreads across his face. There is a loud ripping sound. His fly tears free from his trousers and sails across the room. With a resounding "Boing!" his cock pops out, glowing bright red and flashing like a neon sign.
"I don't want you to fix my vibrator," the woman tells him. "I want you to plug that electric cock of yours straight into my cunt socket!"
"That could be dangerous, Miss," Serge warns.
"Mrs., actually," she informs him.
"Well, Mrs. Actually," he goes on, "a full power poke with my penis has been known to lead to a month-long orgasm."
"Can that be fatal?" she asks.
"No, I don't think so," he admits. "But it would keep you away from work. And it is very difficult to get a doctor's certificate for orgasm-related incapacity."
"Well, that's fine then," she decides. "I'm a house-wife. I don't need a doctor's certificate to stay in bed. I'll just tell my husband I have female trouble."
"Where exactly is Mr. Actually?" he wants to know.
"Our name is Sutcliffe," she corrects him. "My name is Penelope. But you can call me Penny, if you like. Mr. Sutcliffe is a stock-broker. He's at work at the moment. We are perfectly safe to have a little fun."
Serge smiles, strips off the rest of his clothes and saunters over to the bed, his lit-up cock leading the way like Rudolph's nose.
"Whose a bad Penny?" he asks, laying his naked body over hers and kissing her deep red lips.
"You don't know the half of it," she smiles, when he lifts his lips away and gazes into her brown eyes. "I could tell you stories that would shock you."
"I don't need to tell any stories to shock you," he chuckles.
He lifts himself up onto his knees beside her and leans down so that the tip of his stiff and glowing cock comes within a centimetre of the erect nipple of her right breast. A spark like a tiny lightning bolt leaps across the divide.
"Oh, God!" Penny cries, and her pussy twitches in response to the flow of pleasure throughout her body.
Serge does the same to her other nipple with similar results.
"Oh, yes! Oh, yes!" she begs as he kneels between her legs and aims his cock at her stiff and throbbing clit. "Fu-u-u-u-u-u-ck!" she cries as the lightning hits her nub.
"You see how powerful it is?" he asks her. "Are you sure you really want it all?"
"Plug yourself in! Plug yourself in!" she begs.
And so he slides his lightning-powered prick deep into her sopping wet pussy. When it is all the way in he can feel that his balls are lying in a puddle on the sheets. He has to hang on tight, because she immediately starts thrashing around like someone having ten other people's epileptic fits for them. She thrashes so much he is afraid she might bang her head on the end of the bed, so he rolls over and drags her with him so that she is sitting astride his pulsating penis. It's like some kind of rogering rodeo as she struggles to keep from flying off of him under the power of her own orgasmic flailing. To keep a better hold on her, he licks his finger and sticks it up her ass. But that just seems to make her wilder than ever.
Eventually he spurts his cum deep within her. It's extra slipperiness that is definitely not needed. She flies off of his cock and lands on the floor with her legs in the air. Her still quivering cunt squirts a fountain which rains down all over her as she lays there moaning.
Just at that moment the door opens.
"I'm home early, honey," announces a male voice. "Strangest thing. A blackout shut down the whole of the stock exchange, and apparently there is nothing they can do about it."
Serge is out the window like a shadow.
"What the fuck do you think you are doing?" Mr. Sutcliffe asks of his wife.
"Y-y-y-y-yoga," she replies. "I'm stuck."
"My God, woman, you're pissing all over yourself," he adds, noticing the orgasmic fountain that his wife is still producing.
"A c-c-c-cork," suggests his wife, and he goes off to fetch one.
Meanwhile Serge wanders off into the afternoon meditating on the loneliness of the longer-lasting orgasm producer.